


i was trying to get away before you stole my attention

by believe_happyendings



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inceptiversary, Inception Bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believe_happyendings/pseuds/believe_happyendings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames glimpses Arthur in a club, completely dishevelled and dancing with another man. Good thing that state of affairs doesn't last very long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i was trying to get away before you stole my attention

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inception Bingo.
> 
> Bar/Club scenes. 
> 
> I don't think I'll have time before the deadline to write another one, but this is the first work I've written in this fandom and the first work I've ever posted: I'm amazed and delighted at this fandom for still being alive now, and very, very grateful as a late newcomer.

Eames never would have pegged Arthur as a club-goer. What Eames knows of clubs, from his days as a disreputable youth on the streets of Kingston, are this: clubs are dirty and tacky and dark, with sticky floors and sweaty skin, a mass of nameless strangers trying to forget themselves in the loud beat and the louder strobe lights. 

What Eames knows (or, thought he knew, until now) of Arthur is this: he’s meticulous about remembering things, he never loosens his tie even in 40 degree weather, and he hates mess to the point of unceremoniously binning anything he considers vaguely ‘disorganised’, whether it belongs to him or not (Eames has suffered many a time from this organisational rampage and lost a great many colourful ties, half-eaten bagels, and sad take out boxes). The one day he and Arthur had been walking through New York and Arthur had stepped on gum, Arthur had turned more pale than Eames had ever seen him and had taken two days off to recover from the traumatic incident, which was also the longest he had ever not come into work during a job. 

Point being, Arthur and clubs go together about as well as strawberry jelly and lined paper, which is to say you’d never really find them in a sentence together unless that sentence was ridiculous.

The club Eames finds Arthur in, entirely by accident, is more than quite ridiculous. Eames is fresh off his last mission and has an armful of the client’s boisterous, loud and very pretty sister and a handful of even prettier cash to blow. He’s feeling fantastic, after a few drinks at a bar and a successful bribe to the doorman to get the both of them in ahead of the mile-long crowd of young, grumbling, underdressed leggy things. The club is called VERMOUT with no h. It is almost entirely green inside, the kind of emerald green that makes everything a little dippy and hazy and jewelled. There’s also pink flamingos positioned almost every which where, because clubs. 

Of course Eames hasn’t even seen the pink flamingoes because all he can see is what can’t possibly be Arthur on the dancefloor, and yet, somehow is: Arthur in a tight, sweat-soaked white undershirt and slim black trousers. His black hair has come loose from being tightly gelled and brushed back and hangs wildly around his face, his beautiful, flushed face. He looks so incongrous, so much like a summoned fantasy, Eames slips his hand into his pocket to check his totem twice before trusting his own eyes. 

Arthur hasn’t seen him, because he’s dancing with a man, although he’s clearly not very interested in him as he barely makes eye contact, concentrating instead on the heady thump of the music. His wet, lush mouth is slightly open, his eyes half-lidded. 

(Eames shakes his head, slips his hand into his pocket again, just to check.)

Eames is starting to make his way over, arm-candy completely forgotten, when he sees the man pull Arthur closer to him by his belt loops and put his hands around Arthur’s hips. When Arthur moves closer his eyes are a little wider, and he smirks at the man, letting his hands roam over him. 

Well, that’s an obvious enough sign for Eames. He backs away a little, because as much fun as surprising Arthur is (especially like this), he doesn’t want to get in the way of Arthur letting loose. Even if it’s not with him. He slips off to find his spurned date and leaves Arthur to it.

———

Eames really, really does mean to leave Arthur to it. He has a whole plan for the night involving not looking at Arthur, not drawing too much attention to himself and not making his presence overly obvious.

Five minutes into dancing with the pretty sister (Eames can’t even be bothered to reach into the recesses of his mind and draw up her name, and he is usually very good and rememberig names) and she’s given up. She whispers “Maybe we should go somewhere where you’re not so distracted,” into his ear, half playfully and half extremely irritated.

Eames barely hears her, because it’s at that moment that Arthur pulls a hand through his hair and grinds his hips against the lucky bastard he’s dancing with. The sinous roll and twist of those hips is obscene even in a place like this, even from where Eames is standing twenty metres away with his mouth gaping open. 

He doesn’t respond for too long, and now the girl is really huffing. She says “If I’d known all you wanted was a slutty twink boy to suck your cock, I wouldn’t have bothered to do my makeup tonight.”

She’s finally got Eames’ attention. He’d felt bad, tonight, for ignoring her. Well, he’d tried to. And now he very much doesn’t. Now he just feels irritated, and petty.

“No amount of makeup can mask an ugly heart. Or face. What a shame for you, love. You try so hard.”

Her face turns an interesting shade of purple, and she looks like she’s about to hit him, but then she stalks off. Eames has already forgotten about her, but now his mouth is sour from what she said. He leaves the floor before he can make any more bad decisions, using all his willpower to avoid checking if Arthur is finally pulling on the dancefloor with some nameless attractive man, and slips outside. He’s hoping to bum a fag off of someone and then maybe pick a few pockets and head on home: the thrill of seeing Arthur undone burns bright in his mind,  but it’s taking on an unreal quality now, already seeming like a moment in a dream he doesn’t deserve to keep hold of. 

When he gets outside there’s noone there, which is a surprise until Eames steps out and notices that it’s raining quite steadily. He lets himself get dripped on for a bit, wonders briefly about the ethics of stealing a club-goers umbrella to save his tie-dye shirt from getting wet, and turns to go back inside.

Arthur is poised in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His hair is still wild and his lips look red, but his eyes don’t show any surprise. They’re very dark, pupils blown from the low light of the alleyway and the dark club. 

Eames stands stock-still, absorbing the sight of him in. 

He smirks at Eames, and leans down to light his cigarette (his eyes are bright and glittering in the light of the flame, lashes very dark against his skin). He takes a few drags, eyes still on Eames, and then plucks the lit cigarette from his mouth and puts it in Eames’ mouth, Eames’s mouth which still seems to be hanging open from the sight of Arthur’s dark eyes on him, the whirlwind of his hair, the clear line of his collarbone peeking out from his sweat-soaked thin shirt. 

Eames tries to remember how to smoke a cigarette, and nearly chokes on the damn thing. 

Arthur smirks again, says “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Eames.” His voice is low, gravelly, a fucking wet dream come to life. 

Eames tries to drawl out something flirtatious, anything, but he’s still coughing around his inhale, cigarette in his hand as he waves away the smoke.

Arthur takes the cigarette from his hand and pulls from it, and says, slowly, considering, “Your friend left a while ago. She seemed upset.”

He takes another drag and breathes out, the smoke curling around his face. Eames kind of hates him for how he manages to make such an awful habit look so deliciously and unrepetantly good. 

Trust Arthur to be cool and collected at 3am wearing a threadbare t-shirt and with the scent of a thousand other bodies on him. Eames wants to do something devastatingly charming, a long flirtatious speech that will end with Arthur dragging him out onto the dancefloor, all sinous hips and small smiles.

He blurts out, like a plea, more begging than seduction, “Dance with me, darling." 

And Arthur smiles, this time, and throws the cigarette on the ground, still burning. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

 


End file.
